Ever since they “LATCHED” onto the crooner Sam Smith’s soulful vibes, the duo of brothers has blended soulful vibez effortlessly with what can be described as pounding electronic jazz throughout the neo-soul British invasion of American pop. This is the 1st single from their new album coming soon. The turnip should be enjoyed smooth in a chilled glass in the outside Summer feel on this one. Swag it out!
Scooter, hook Justin up with these guys ASAP. They should produce his first adult record!
On the streets of Madrid (it’s in SPAIN – GET A MAP), the most recognizable face in soccer got his Uncle Drew on and showed off his skills… but in disguise as a homeless dude. Known for slayin supermodels with a proficiency only rivaled by Hollyhood Superstar Leonardo DiCaprio, Cristiano usually has to fend off suitors. This time, watch what happens when he tries to get a girl’s number in character. Even better is the little fan’s reaction when he realizes…
I don’t know where it all went wrong, where it all fell to pieces, but everything is completely fucked. We had the plan, a masterpiece of preparation, a cunning framework outlining our entire plot from start to finish. We had the contingencies covered, backups for our backups. We had the manpower. We had it all. What happened? We should have been in and out by now. We should have pierced the security, broken the shell code, and penetrated the vault. We should be halfway home. But we’re not. We didn’t see this coming. We can’t crack the goddamned coconut.
A week ago, it all seemed so simple. I received the intel the usual way, a stack of discarded junk mail, a folded flyer peeking out from a grocery store insert. Produce sale. At first glance, nothing unusual. I almost tossed it. But then, down in the corner, something caught my eye. There she was, in glorious airbrushed high-definition. A coconut. Only $1.99 apiece. Jackpot.
I called in my crew. They came from all over when I explained what I’d found. I pitched them the plan one by one, mano a mano. Well, not really con mi mano. I don’t translate well. Regardless, you could feel the excitement in the air, a palpable energy, a rising force of conspired hope. They all knew what we had on our hands and manos. The motherload. The mothermano. An unfathomably cheap way to mine liquid diamonds. Yup, I’d found the smuggler’s Holy Grail. One last big score. An attack on Big Coconut Water.
At the time, cans of coconut water were running $2.78. That’s a lot of heft for a little liquid refreshment. A lot of change. A lot of profit margin. In a racket like that, you can easily walk away with enough jangle to buy your own jungle. And that’s what I told my men. We’d be living large in Amazonian mansions just as soon as we blasted open that palm tree nut-safe, repackaged the interior water, and set up a marketing and distribution plan. Like I said, so simple. But that coconut’s security was just, well… damn.
So here we are. Stuck. Desperate with our dying plan. We’ve tried everything – drills, hammers, rocks, an Olympic javelin throw – all without results. The coconut won’t give. We’re never getting whatever it holds. Not in time, anyway. Yeah, that’s right. Time. Because guess what just showed up in the mail? Next week’s insert. On special? Coconut water. The bastards were on to us the whole time. Damn coupon clippers are going to have a field day on our collective ass.
We were supposed to save seventy-nine cents. Now we’ve got nothing to show for it. One last big score drowned in the unreachable depths of a coconut’s water.
Confession: I went to Buffalo Wild Wings and watched people pummel each other for five hours and I have no regrets.
Okay, so a little about me for context.
I am a 25-year old female feminist who advocates for survivors of sexual violence 40+ hours a week, indulges in cynical sarcasm, and maintains an unhealthy obsession with my cat as self-care. In my office, rape is lunch talk. Stalking and harassment are casual hallway conversations. I don’t believe we become numb to it, but we accept it as a reality and move forward from that reality.
I spend my day managing a massive schedule of advocates answering our 24-7, statewide crisis line. During my breaks, I catch up on current events, primarily those related to violence against women and marginalized populations (although I wouldn’t recommend saturating your entire day in interpersonal violence). Of recent, my spare moments are spent reading lengthy articles on Bill Cosby’s victims, rich white celebrities opposing decriminalization of sex work, undercover videos of Planned Parenthood meetings, and quotes from Donald Trump’s lawyer claiming you can’t legally rape your wife.
On Saturday, I consumed a different brand of media: mixed martial arts. This consensual form of beating the shit out of someone was… well, incredibly refreshing! Now, I am not usually one to support violence in any form not only because of my advocacy work but also because I can’t stand the idea of people, animals, or fictional creatures getting hurt (I am still traumatized by Bambi and The Fox and the Hound). At first, I didn’t exactly enjoy this male-dominated, arguably misogynistic sport but then an ass-kicking warrior woman changed everything.
Enter Ronda Rousey.
If you haven’t watched Ronda Rousey end the dreams of Bethe Correia in 34 seconds, you need to do that right now.
If you’ve already watched it, then you’ve already witnessed the utterly amazing feat of human strength that was Ronda knocking out Bethe. Now why on EARTH would someone like ME be endorsing one human trying to bash the face of another human? (Please note: My father once invited his three adult children to shoot clay targets with him. I declined, choosing instead to cover the ears of newly born farm kittens because I worried gunshots would surely induce feline hearing loss).
Why? Because this was the first time I have ever in my life seen a bar full of men covered in buffalo sauce anxiously awaiting a FEMALE sporting event. A room full of MEN watching a WOMAN excel in sports. (I am not entertaining the sexualization of the athletes or the influence Ronda’s drop-dead gorgeous body had on the popularity of this fight. That is a dissertation in itself and we don’t have time for that.) I’d like to instead thank Ronda for being bad ass enough to draw attention to her sport in a way that had a room full of people – from college bros to lesbians – yelling and cheering her on, regardless of their gender, sexual orientation, or race. Forget the fight, forget the knockout, forget all the spectacle around it. Bringing people together is what’s truly inspiring.